The Protestants Vade Mecum Or, Popery Display'd in its proper Colours, In Thirty Emblems, Lively representing all the Jesuitical Plots Against this Nation, and More fully this late hellish Designe Against his Sacred Majesty. Curiously engraven in Copper-plates |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
Emblem XXI.
Pickering and Grove attempting to shoot the King in St. James's Park.
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| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
 | The Protestants Vade Mecum |  |
82
Emblem XXI. Pickering and Grove attempting to shoot the King in St. James's Park.
Now guard him Heaven from approaching fate,And crush the Romish Plot to spoil the State.
83
Behold, as wild Asses in the desart go they forth to
their work, rising betimes for a prey.
JOB, Chap. 24. v. 5.
Rome
's under-Agents knowing that the King
Did sometimes walk to pass an hour away,
Crept like two Serpents into th'Park to sting,
And at one stroak t'eclipse a glorious ray.
In Ambuscade
They closely laid,
Resolv'd the deed to perpetrate;
With bloody will,
Intent to kill,
They lurk'd to give the King his fate.
Now to his long'd-for Recreations he
Is moving on
In th'sweet felicity
Of th'evening sun,
To view the sportful Fawn, the nimble Hind
Trips o're the tender grass, as swift as wind,
And leaves no track of any steps behind.
The feather'd Guests their thankfulness afford,
And in their various Notes proclaim him Lord,
Flutt'ring in ayr, some hover in his sight,
And treat him still with different delight.
The murm'ring Winds do from the Thickets yield
Balsamick Odors, which surround the field:
But they more guilty than th'unerring rest,
Hide both the Traytors in their leavie brest.
Lull'd in the bosome of the Thicket, they
Wait that his steps might Royalty betray.
Still he walks on,
And nothing fears;
Nothing of harm as yet appears,
Nor ought that's like destruction.
All his great dangers no distraction bring,
But he does still support 'em as a King.
The ambush too,
Who would undo
A Nation, if they might its Crown subdue,
Full of desire,
Ready to fire,
Are dash'd, and streight with shame retire.
The faithful Flint more sensible than they,
Unnerv'd, and did in honour disobey.
Loose in the frame it shook beneath its trust,
And nip'd the blooming hopes of bloody lust:
Like hardned Criminals away they move,
Not thinking they were seen by Heav'n above.
With rage made wild,
They were beguil'd,
And could not then perform their will.
They vow before
They'l give it ore,
They'l forge a thousand ways to kill:
Poyson or Steel
He still must feel,
Or any thing that surest wounds;
The ways we'll choose,
We'll not refuse
To give a hundred thousand pounds.
Thus they run on in their pernicious ways,
All to make short the best of Princes days.
But one more blind,
And sear'd in mind,
Still thought Damnation must insue,
Because he lost
With care and cost
That Minute Fate allow'd by you.
To purge the heynous crime
Committed by the zealous fool that time,
He sends for Priest, a Devil, and a Rope,
Who both combine
To Discipline,
Because he disoblig'd the Pope.
Did sometimes walk to pass an hour away,
Crept like two Serpents into th'Park to sting,
And at one stroak t'eclipse a glorious ray.
In Ambuscade
They closely laid,
Resolv'd the deed to perpetrate;
With bloody will,
Intent to kill,
They lurk'd to give the King his fate.
Now to his long'd-for Recreations he
Is moving on
In th'sweet felicity
Of th'evening sun,
To view the sportful Fawn, the nimble Hind
Trips o're the tender grass, as swift as wind,
And leaves no track of any steps behind.
The feather'd Guests their thankfulness afford,
And in their various Notes proclaim him Lord,
Flutt'ring in ayr, some hover in his sight,
And treat him still with different delight.
The murm'ring Winds do from the Thickets yield
Balsamick Odors, which surround the field:
But they more guilty than th'unerring rest,
Hide both the Traytors in their leavie brest.
Lull'd in the bosome of the Thicket, they
Wait that his steps might Royalty betray.
Still he walks on,
And nothing fears;
Nothing of harm as yet appears,
Nor ought that's like destruction.
84
But he does still support 'em as a King.
The ambush too,
Who would undo
A Nation, if they might its Crown subdue,
Full of desire,
Ready to fire,
Are dash'd, and streight with shame retire.
The faithful Flint more sensible than they,
Unnerv'd, and did in honour disobey.
Loose in the frame it shook beneath its trust,
And nip'd the blooming hopes of bloody lust:
Like hardned Criminals away they move,
Not thinking they were seen by Heav'n above.
With rage made wild,
They were beguil'd,
And could not then perform their will.
They vow before
They'l give it ore,
They'l forge a thousand ways to kill:
Poyson or Steel
He still must feel,
Or any thing that surest wounds;
The ways we'll choose,
We'll not refuse
To give a hundred thousand pounds.
Thus they run on in their pernicious ways,
All to make short the best of Princes days.
But one more blind,
And sear'd in mind,
Still thought Damnation must insue,
Because he lost
With care and cost
That Minute Fate allow'd by you.
To purge the heynous crime
Committed by the zealous fool that time,
He sends for Priest, a Devil, and a Rope,
Who both combine
To Discipline,
Because he disoblig'd the Pope.
85
Kind Heav'n! this is a Miracle indeed,
To save a life which should that moment bleed,
If they had acted what black Rome decreed.
But thou art good, and infinitely just,
And none are lost that on thy mercies trust;
Though many Princes of the earth do drink
The Romish Cup, and to her bosome shrink:
Though most do bend unto the fatal See,
And Slave-like, give the Beast Supremacy;
Thou like a King art kept by Heav'n alone,
An unslav'd Monarch on a Royal Throne;
Thou all enjoy'st, all the great gifts above,
Whilst they like Vassals in subjection move,
And shrink to Chaos, dying without hope
Of future bliss, not pard'ned by the Pope.
To save a life which should that moment bleed,
If they had acted what black Rome decreed.
But thou art good, and infinitely just,
And none are lost that on thy mercies trust;
Though many Princes of the earth do drink
The Romish Cup, and to her bosome shrink:
Though most do bend unto the fatal See,
And Slave-like, give the Beast Supremacy;
Thou like a King art kept by Heav'n alone,
An unslav'd Monarch on a Royal Throne;
Thou all enjoy'st, all the great gifts above,
Whilst they like Vassals in subjection move,
And shrink to Chaos, dying without hope
Of future bliss, not pard'ned by the Pope.
| The Protestants Vade Mecum | |